CIRCUMSTANCE.

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,He seemed a most despairing swain;But bluer sky brought newer tie,And—would he wish her back again?The moments fly, and, when we die,Will Philly Thistletop complain?She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,And let herself be wooed again.

He dropt a tear on Susan's bier,He seemed a most despairing swain;But bluer sky brought newer tie,And—would he wish her back again?

The moments fly, and, when we die,Will Philly Thistletop complain?She'll cry and sigh, and—dry her eye,And let herself be wooed again.

THE ORANGE.

Itripened by the river banks,Where, mask and moonlight aiding,Dons Blas' and Juans play sad pranks,Dark Donnas serenading.By Moorish maiden it was plucked,Who broke some hearts they say then:By Saxon sweetheart it was sucked,—Who flung the peel away then.How should she know in PimlicoOr t'other girl in Seville,ThatIshould reel upon that peel,And wish them at the Devil!

Itripened by the river banks,Where, mask and moonlight aiding,Dons Blas' and Juans play sad pranks,Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish maiden it was plucked,Who broke some hearts they say then:By Saxon sweetheart it was sucked,—Who flung the peel away then.

How should she know in PimlicoOr t'other girl in Seville,ThatIshould reel upon that peel,And wish them at the Devil!

Thehealthy-wealthy-wise affirmThat early birds secure the worm,(The worm rose early too!)Who scorns his couch should glean by rightsA world of pleasant sounds and sightsThat vanish with the dew:One planet from his watch releasedFast fading from the purple east,As morning waxes stronger;The comely cock that vainly strivesTo crow from sleep his drowsy wives,Who would be dozing longer.Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,—The matutine musicianWho heavenward soars on rapture's wings,Though sought, unseen,—who mounts and singsIn musical derision.From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell,A daughter waves her sire "farewell,"Across the sunlit water:All these I heard, or saw—for funI stole a march upon that sun,And then upon that daughter.This Lady Fair, the county's pride,A white lamb trotting at her side,Had hied her through the park;A fond and gentle foster-dam—May be she slumbered with her lamb,Thus rising with the lark!The lambkin frisked, the lady fainWould coax him back, she called in vain,The rebel proved unruly;I followed for the maiden's sake,A pilgrim in an angel's wake,A happy pilgrim truly!The maid gave chase, the lambkin ranAs only woolly truant canWho never felt a crook;But stayed at length, as if disposedTo drink, where tawny sands disclosedThe margin of a brook.His mistress, who had followed fast,Cried, "Little rogue, you're caught at last;I'm cleverer than you."Then straight the wanderer conveyedWhere wayward shrubs, in tangled shade,Protected her from view.And timidly she glanced around,All fearful lest the slightest soundMight mortal footfall be;Then shrinkingly she stepped asideOne moment—and her garter tiedThe truant to a tree.Perhaps the World may wish to knowThe hue of this enchanting bow,And if 'twere silk or lace;No, not from me, be pleased to thinkIt might be either—blue or pink,'Twas tied—with maiden grace.Suffice it that the child was fair,As Una sweet, with golden hair,And come of high degree;And though her feet were pure from stain,She turned her to the brook again,And laved them dreamingly.Awhile she sat in maiden mood,And watched the shadows in the flood,That varied with the stream;And as each pretty foot she dips,The ripples ope their crystal lipsIn welcome, as 'twould seem.Such reveries are fleeting things,Which come and go on whimsy wings,—As kindly Fancy taught herThe Fair her tender day-dream nurst;But when the light-blown bubble burst,She wearied of the water;Betook her to the spot where yetSafe tethered lay her captured pet,But lifting, with a start, herAstonished gaze, she spied a change,And screamed—it seemed so very strange!...Cried Echo,—"Where's my garter?"The blushing girl her lamb led home,Perhaps resolved no more to roamAt peep of day together;If chance so takes them, it is plainShe will not venture forth againWithout an extra tether!A fair white stone will mark this morn,I wear a prize, one lightly worn,Love's gage—though not intended—Of course I'll guard it near my heart,Till suns and even stars depart,And chivalry has ended.Dull World! I now resign to youThose crosses, stars, and ribbons blue,With which you deck your martyrs:I'll bear my cross amid your jars,My ribbon prize, and thank my starsI do not crave your garters.

Thehealthy-wealthy-wise affirmThat early birds secure the worm,(The worm rose early too!)Who scorns his couch should glean by rightsA world of pleasant sounds and sightsThat vanish with the dew:

One planet from his watch releasedFast fading from the purple east,As morning waxes stronger;The comely cock that vainly strivesTo crow from sleep his drowsy wives,Who would be dozing longer.

Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,—The matutine musicianWho heavenward soars on rapture's wings,Though sought, unseen,—who mounts and singsIn musical derision.

From sea-girt pile, where nobles dwell,A daughter waves her sire "farewell,"Across the sunlit water:All these I heard, or saw—for funI stole a march upon that sun,And then upon that daughter.

This Lady Fair, the county's pride,A white lamb trotting at her side,Had hied her through the park;A fond and gentle foster-dam—May be she slumbered with her lamb,Thus rising with the lark!

The lambkin frisked, the lady fainWould coax him back, she called in vain,The rebel proved unruly;I followed for the maiden's sake,A pilgrim in an angel's wake,A happy pilgrim truly!

The maid gave chase, the lambkin ranAs only woolly truant canWho never felt a crook;But stayed at length, as if disposedTo drink, where tawny sands disclosedThe margin of a brook.

His mistress, who had followed fast,Cried, "Little rogue, you're caught at last;I'm cleverer than you."Then straight the wanderer conveyedWhere wayward shrubs, in tangled shade,Protected her from view.

And timidly she glanced around,All fearful lest the slightest soundMight mortal footfall be;Then shrinkingly she stepped asideOne moment—and her garter tiedThe truant to a tree.

Perhaps the World may wish to knowThe hue of this enchanting bow,And if 'twere silk or lace;No, not from me, be pleased to thinkIt might be either—blue or pink,'Twas tied—with maiden grace.

Suffice it that the child was fair,As Una sweet, with golden hair,And come of high degree;And though her feet were pure from stain,She turned her to the brook again,And laved them dreamingly.

Awhile she sat in maiden mood,And watched the shadows in the flood,That varied with the stream;And as each pretty foot she dips,The ripples ope their crystal lipsIn welcome, as 'twould seem.

Such reveries are fleeting things,Which come and go on whimsy wings,—As kindly Fancy taught herThe Fair her tender day-dream nurst;But when the light-blown bubble burst,She wearied of the water;

Betook her to the spot where yetSafe tethered lay her captured pet,But lifting, with a start, herAstonished gaze, she spied a change,And screamed—it seemed so very strange!...Cried Echo,—"Where's my garter?"

The blushing girl her lamb led home,Perhaps resolved no more to roamAt peep of day together;If chance so takes them, it is plainShe will not venture forth againWithout an extra tether!

A fair white stone will mark this morn,I wear a prize, one lightly worn,Love's gage—though not intended—Of course I'll guard it near my heart,Till suns and even stars depart,And chivalry has ended.

Dull World! I now resign to youThose crosses, stars, and ribbons blue,With which you deck your martyrs:I'll bear my cross amid your jars,My ribbon prize, and thank my starsI do not crave your garters.

AZLA AND EMMA.

A crossing-sweeper, black and tan,Tells how he came from Hindustan,And why he wears a hat, and shunnedThe fatherland of Pugree Bund.My wife had charms, she worshipped me,—Her father was a Caradee,His deity was aquatile,A rough and tough old Crocodile.To gratify this monster's mawHe sacrificed his sons-in-law;We married, tho' the neighbours said heHad lost five sons-in-law already.Her father, when he played these pranks,Proposed "a turn" on Jumna's banks;He spoke so kind, she seemed so glum,I knew at once that mine had come.I fled before this artful ruseTo cook my too-confiding goose,And now I sweep, in chill despair,This crossing in St. James's Square;Some oldQui-hy, some rural flatMay drop a sixpence in my hat;Yet still I mourn the mango-treeWhere Azla first grew fond of me.These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny,Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee;What matters it if theirs are snowy,As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!Your town is vile. In Thames's streamThe crocodiles get up the steam!Your juggernauts their victims bumpFrom Camberwell to Aldgate pump!A year ago, come Candlemas,I wooed a plump Feringhee lass;United at her idol fane,I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.A moon had waned when virtuous EmmaInvolved me in a new dilemma:The Brahma faith that Emma scornsImpaled me tight on both its horns:She vowed to die if she survived me;Of this sweet fancy she deprived me,She ran from all her obligations,And went to stay with her relations.My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps,But Emma mocks my trials,—She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks,At me in Seven Dials,—She'd see me farther still, than be,Though Veeshnu wills it—mySuttee!

A crossing-sweeper, black and tan,Tells how he came from Hindustan,And why he wears a hat, and shunnedThe fatherland of Pugree Bund.

My wife had charms, she worshipped me,—Her father was a Caradee,His deity was aquatile,A rough and tough old Crocodile.

To gratify this monster's mawHe sacrificed his sons-in-law;We married, tho' the neighbours said heHad lost five sons-in-law already.

Her father, when he played these pranks,Proposed "a turn" on Jumna's banks;He spoke so kind, she seemed so glum,I knew at once that mine had come.

I fled before this artful ruseTo cook my too-confiding goose,And now I sweep, in chill despair,This crossing in St. James's Square;

Some oldQui-hy, some rural flatMay drop a sixpence in my hat;Yet still I mourn the mango-treeWhere Azla first grew fond of me.

These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny,Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee;What matters it if theirs are snowy,As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!

Your town is vile. In Thames's streamThe crocodiles get up the steam!Your juggernauts their victims bumpFrom Camberwell to Aldgate pump!

A year ago, come Candlemas,I wooed a plump Feringhee lass;United at her idol fane,I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.

A moon had waned when virtuous EmmaInvolved me in a new dilemma:The Brahma faith that Emma scornsImpaled me tight on both its horns:

She vowed to die if she survived me;Of this sweet fancy she deprived me,She ran from all her obligations,And went to stay with her relations.

My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps,But Emma mocks my trials,—She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks,At me in Seven Dials,—She'd see me farther still, than be,Though Veeshnu wills it—mySuttee!

Thousayest our friends are only deadTo idle mirth and sorrow,Regretful tears for what is fled,And yearnings for to-morrow.Alas, that love should know alloy—How frail the cup that holds our joy!Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to roveThose paths of asphodel;Where all we prize, and all who love,Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell?Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,To lead thee through a better land.Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—When time for us is flown,There is this garden,—far away,An Eden all our own:And there I'll whisper in thine ear—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!

Thousayest our friends are only deadTo idle mirth and sorrow,Regretful tears for what is fled,And yearnings for to-morrow.Alas, that love should know alloy—How frail the cup that holds our joy!

Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to roveThose paths of asphodel;Where all we prize, and all who love,Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell?Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,To lead thee through a better land.

Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—When time for us is flown,There is this garden,—far away,An Eden all our own:And there I'll whisper in thine ear—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!

Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrellaThat day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella."Letters from Rome.

MissTristram'spouletended thus: "Nota bene,We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini."Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina,"(The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina).We started—I'll own that my family deemThat I'm soft—but I'm not quite so soft as I seem;As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La!There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa."Our friends, some of whom may be mentioned anon,Had maderendezvousat the Gate of St. John:That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there,And soon were all met at the villa—you've been there?I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please,The cheer that was set for us under the trees:You have read themenu, may you read it again,Champagne, perigord, galantine, and—champagne.Suffice it to say that, by chance, I was thrust'Twixt Selina and Brown—to the latter's disgust.Poor Brown, who believes in himself—and, another thing,Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so—t'other thing.She sang, her sweet voice filled the gay garden alleys;I jested, but Brown would not smile at my sallies;And Selina remarked that a swell met at Rome,Is not always a swell when one meets him at home.The luncheon despatched, we adjourned to croquet,A dainty, but difficult sport, in its way.Thus I counsel the Sage, who to play at it stoops,—Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops.Then we strolled, and discourse found its softest of tones:"How charming were solitude and—Mrs. Jones.""Indeed, Mr. Placid, I doat on these sheenyAnd shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini."A girl came with violet posies—and twoSoft eyes, like her violets, laden with dew;And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air,As if she by accident found herself there.I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it;She gave me a rose-bud to keep—and I've kept it.Thus the moments flew by, and I think, in my heart,When one vowed one must go, two were loth to depart.The twilight is near, we no longer can stay;The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away.The ladiescondemnMrs. Jones, as the phrase is,But vie with each other in chanting my praises."He has so much to say," cries the fair Mrs. Legge;"How amusing he was about missing the peg!""What a beautiful smile!" says the plainest Miss Gunn.All echo, "He's charming! Delightful! What fun!"This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear itWould have sounded more nice if I'd happened to hear it;The men were less civil, and gave me a rub,So I happened to hear when I went to the Club.Says Brown, "I shall drop Mr. Placid's society;"But Brown is a prig of improper propriety."Confound him," says Smith (who from cant's not exempt),"Why, he'll bring immorality into contempt."Says I (to myself), when I found me alone,"My wife has my heart, is it wholly her own?"And further, says I (to myself), "I'll be shotIf I know if Selina adores me or not."Says Jones, "I've just come from thescavi, at Veii,And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabæi."

MissTristram'spouletended thus: "Nota bene,We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini."Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina,"(The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina).

We started—I'll own that my family deemThat I'm soft—but I'm not quite so soft as I seem;As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La!There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa."

Our friends, some of whom may be mentioned anon,Had maderendezvousat the Gate of St. John:That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there,And soon were all met at the villa—you've been there?

I will try and describe, or I won't, if you please,The cheer that was set for us under the trees:You have read themenu, may you read it again,Champagne, perigord, galantine, and—champagne.

Suffice it to say that, by chance, I was thrust'Twixt Selina and Brown—to the latter's disgust.Poor Brown, who believes in himself—and, another thing,Whose talk is so bald, but whose cheeks are so—t'other thing.

She sang, her sweet voice filled the gay garden alleys;I jested, but Brown would not smile at my sallies;And Selina remarked that a swell met at Rome,Is not always a swell when one meets him at home.

The luncheon despatched, we adjourned to croquet,A dainty, but difficult sport, in its way.Thus I counsel the Sage, who to play at it stoops,—Belabour thy neighbour, and spoon through thy hoops.

Then we strolled, and discourse found its softest of tones:"How charming were solitude and—Mrs. Jones.""Indeed, Mr. Placid, I doat on these sheenyAnd shadowy paths of the Aldobrandini."

A girl came with violet posies—and twoSoft eyes, like her violets, laden with dew;And a kind of an indolent, fine-lady air,As if she by accident found herself there.

I bought one. Selina was pleased to accept it;She gave me a rose-bud to keep—and I've kept it.Thus the moments flew by, and I think, in my heart,When one vowed one must go, two were loth to depart.

The twilight is near, we no longer can stay;The steeds are remounted, and wheels roll away.The ladiescondemnMrs. Jones, as the phrase is,But vie with each other in chanting my praises.

"He has so much to say," cries the fair Mrs. Legge;"How amusing he was about missing the peg!""What a beautiful smile!" says the plainest Miss Gunn.All echo, "He's charming! Delightful! What fun!"

This sounds rather nice, and it's perfectly clear itWould have sounded more nice if I'd happened to hear it;The men were less civil, and gave me a rub,So I happened to hear when I went to the Club.

Says Brown, "I shall drop Mr. Placid's society;"But Brown is a prig of improper propriety."Confound him," says Smith (who from cant's not exempt),"Why, he'll bring immorality into contempt."

Says I (to myself), when I found me alone,"My wife has my heart, is it wholly her own?"And further, says I (to myself), "I'll be shotIf I know if Selina adores me or not."

Says Jones, "I've just come from thescavi, at Veii,And I've bought some remarkably fine scarabæi."

Papawas deep in weekly bills,Mama was doing Fanny's frills,Her gentle face fullOf woe; said she, "I do declareHe can't go back in such a Pair,They're too disgraceful!""Confound it," quoth Papa—perhapsThe ban was deeper, but the lapseOf time has drowned it:Besides, 'tis badness to supposeA worse, when goodness only knowsHe meantConfound it.The butcher's book—that unctuous diary—Had made my Parent's temper fiery,And bubble over:So quite in spite he flung it down,And spilt the ink, and spoilt his ownFine table-coverOf scarlet cloth! Papa cried "pish!"Which did not mean he did not wishHe'd been more heedful:"Good luck," said he, "this cloth will dip,And make a famous pair—get SnipTo do the needful."'Twas thus that I went back to schoolIn garb no boy could ridicule,And eft becomingA jolly child—I plunged in debtFor tarts—and promised fair to getThe prize for summing.But, no! my schoolmates soon beganAgain to mock my outward man,And make me hate 'em!Long sitting will broadcloth abrade,The dye wore off—and so displayedA red substratum!To both my Parents then I flew—Mama shed tears, Papa cried "Pooh,Come, stop this racket:"He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bidTo stitch me on two tails; he did,And spoilt my jacket!And then the boys, despite my wails,Would slily come and lift my tails,And smack me soundly.O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad!Although your exploits drove me mad,Ye loved me fondly.Good Friends, our little ones (who feelSuch bitter wounds, which only healAs wisdom mellows)Need sympathy in deed and word;So never let them look absurdBeside their fellows.My wife, who likes the Things I've doftSublimes her sentiments, for oft,She'll take, and ... air them!—You little Puss, you love this pair,And yet you never seem to careTo let me wear them.

Papawas deep in weekly bills,Mama was doing Fanny's frills,Her gentle face fullOf woe; said she, "I do declareHe can't go back in such a Pair,They're too disgraceful!"

"Confound it," quoth Papa—perhapsThe ban was deeper, but the lapseOf time has drowned it:Besides, 'tis badness to supposeA worse, when goodness only knowsHe meantConfound it.

The butcher's book—that unctuous diary—Had made my Parent's temper fiery,And bubble over:So quite in spite he flung it down,And spilt the ink, and spoilt his ownFine table-cover

Of scarlet cloth! Papa cried "pish!"Which did not mean he did not wishHe'd been more heedful:"Good luck," said he, "this cloth will dip,And make a famous pair—get SnipTo do the needful."

'Twas thus that I went back to schoolIn garb no boy could ridicule,And eft becomingA jolly child—I plunged in debtFor tarts—and promised fair to getThe prize for summing.

But, no! my schoolmates soon beganAgain to mock my outward man,And make me hate 'em!Long sitting will broadcloth abrade,The dye wore off—and so displayedA red substratum!

To both my Parents then I flew—Mama shed tears, Papa cried "Pooh,Come, stop this racket:"He'd still some cloth, so Snip was bidTo stitch me on two tails; he did,And spoilt my jacket!

And then the boys, despite my wails,Would slily come and lift my tails,And smack me soundly.O, weak Mama! O, wrathful Dad!Although your exploits drove me mad,Ye loved me fondly.

Good Friends, our little ones (who feelSuch bitter wounds, which only healAs wisdom mellows)Need sympathy in deed and word;So never let them look absurdBeside their fellows.

My wife, who likes the Things I've doftSublimes her sentiments, for oft,She'll take, and ... air them!—You little Puss, you love this pair,And yet you never seem to careTo let me wear them.

I ampacing Pall Mall in a wrapt reverie,—I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,—When up creeps a ragged and shivering wretch,Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat,A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat;For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear;Just try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air."He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it;He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.I pause ... and pass on—and beside the club fireI settle that Sophy is all I desire.As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophè,Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy,I half tumble over an "object" unnerving—So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving."She begs—my heart's moved—but I've much circumspection;I stifle remorse with the soothing reflectionThat cases of vice are by no means a rarity—The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guidesWould settle this question—and others besides!For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus,If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.A few minutes later—how pleasant for me!—I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea:Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries,What cartloads of rubbish they send her fromBarry's!"There's a present for you!" Yes, my sweet Sophy's thriftHas enabled the darling to buy me a gift.And she slips in my hand—the delightfully sly Thing—A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing."What a charmingcadeau! and," says I, "so well made;But are you aware, you extravagant jade,That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizardWas cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?""Pooh, pooh," says my lady (I ought to defend her,Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender),"Hopgarten protests they've no feeling—and soIt was nothing but muscular movement, you know."Thinks I—when I've saidau revoir, and depart—(A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),—And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notionThat begging is only a muscular motion.

I ampacing Pall Mall in a wrapt reverie,—I am thinking if Sophy is thinking of me,—When up creeps a ragged and shivering wretch,Who seems to be well on his way to Jack Ketch.

He has got a bad face, and a shocking bad hat,A comb in his fist, and he sees I'm a flat;For he says, "Buy a comb, it's a fine un to wear;Just try it, my Lord, through your whiskers and 'air."

He eyes my gold chain, as if anxious to crib it;He looks just as if he'd been blown from a gibbet.I pause ... and pass on—and beside the club fireI settle that Sophy is all I desire.

As I walk from the club, and am deep in a strophè,Which rolls upon all that's delicious in Sophy,I half tumble over an "object" unnerving—So frightful a hag must be "highly deserving."

She begs—my heart's moved—but I've much circumspection;I stifle remorse with the soothing reflectionThat cases of vice are by no means a rarity—The worst vice of all's indiscriminate charity.

Am I right? How I wish that our clerical guidesWould settle this question—and others besides!For always to harden one's fiddlestrings thus,If it's wholesome for beggars, is hurtful for us.

A few minutes later—how pleasant for me!—I am seated by Sophy at five-o'clock tea:Her table is loaded, for when a girl marries,What cartloads of rubbish they send her fromBarry's!

"There's a present for you!" Yes, my sweet Sophy's thriftHas enabled the darling to buy me a gift.And she slips in my hand—the delightfully sly Thing—A paper-weight formed of a bronze lizard writhing.

"What a charmingcadeau! and," says I, "so well made;But are you aware, you extravagant jade,That in casting this metal a live, harmless lizardWas cruelly tortured in ghost and in gizzard?"

"Pooh, pooh," says my lady (I ought to defend her,Her head is too giddy, her heart's much too tender),"Hopgarten protests they've no feeling—and soIt was nothing but muscular movement, you know."

Thinks I—when I've saidau revoir, and depart—(A Comb in my pocket, a Weight at my heart),—And when wretched mendicants writhe, we've a notionThat begging is only a muscular motion.

Goodpastry is vendedIn Cité Fadette,—Madame Pons constructs splendidBriocheandgalette!Monsieur Pons is so fat thatHe's laid on the shelf,—Madame Pons had a cat thatWas fat as herself.Long hair—soft as satin,—A musical purr—'Gainst the window she'd flattenHer delicate fur.Once I drove Lou to see whatOur neighbours were at,When, in rapture, cried she, "WhatAn exquisite cat!"What whiskers! She's purringAll over. A galeOf contentment is stirringHer feathery tail."Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?"—"Ma femme est sortie,Your offer I'll tell her,But—will she?" says he.Yet Pons was persuadedTo part with the prize!(Our bargain was aided,My Lou, by your eyes!)From hislégitimesave him—My fate I prefer!For I warrant she gave himUn mauvais quart d'heure.I'm giving a pleasantGrimalkin to Lou,—Ah, Puss, what a presentI'm giving to you!

Goodpastry is vendedIn Cité Fadette,—Madame Pons constructs splendidBriocheandgalette!

Monsieur Pons is so fat thatHe's laid on the shelf,—Madame Pons had a cat thatWas fat as herself.

Long hair—soft as satin,—A musical purr—'Gainst the window she'd flattenHer delicate fur.

Once I drove Lou to see whatOur neighbours were at,When, in rapture, cried she, "WhatAn exquisite cat!

"What whiskers! She's purringAll over. A galeOf contentment is stirringHer feathery tail.

"Monsieur Pons, will you sell her?"—"Ma femme est sortie,Your offer I'll tell her,But—will she?" says he.

Yet Pons was persuadedTo part with the prize!(Our bargain was aided,My Lou, by your eyes!)

From hislégitimesave him—My fate I prefer!For I warrant she gave himUn mauvais quart d'heure.

I'm giving a pleasantGrimalkin to Lou,—Ah, Puss, what a presentI'm giving to you!

BY SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

WhenPunch gives friend and foe their due,Can unwashed mirth grow riper?Yet when the curtain falls, how fewRemain to pay the piper!If pathos should thy bosom stirTo tears, more sweet than laughter,Oh, bless its kind interpreter,And love him ever after!Dear Parson of the roguish eye!Thy face has grown historic,Since saint and sinner flocked to buyThe homilies of Yorick.I fain would add one blossom toThe chaplet Fame has wreathed thee.My friends, the crew that Yorick drewAccept, as friends bequeathed thee.At Shandy Hall I like to stopAnd see my ancient crony,Or in the lane meet Dr. SlopAstride a slender pony.Mine uncle, on his bowling-green,Still storms a breach in Flanders;And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean,With Bridget still philanders.And here again they visit usBy happy inspiration,The "fortunes of Pisistratus,"A tale of fascination.But lay his magic volume by,And thank the Great Enchanter;—Our loins are girded, let us tryA sentimental canter....A Temple quaint of latest growthExpands, where Art and ScienceAstounded by our lack of both,Have founded an alliance.One picture there all passers scan,It rivets friend and stranger:Come, gaze on yonder guileless man,And tremble for his danger.Mine uncle's bluff—his waistcoat's buff,—The heart beneath is tender.—Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!Thou fairest of thy gender.The limner's art!—the poet's pen!—Posterity the storyShall tell how these three gifted menHave wrought for Yorick's glory.O name not easily forgot!Our love, dear Shade, we show thee,Regretting thy misdeeds, but notForgetting what we owe thee.

WhenPunch gives friend and foe their due,Can unwashed mirth grow riper?Yet when the curtain falls, how fewRemain to pay the piper!

If pathos should thy bosom stirTo tears, more sweet than laughter,Oh, bless its kind interpreter,And love him ever after!

Dear Parson of the roguish eye!Thy face has grown historic,Since saint and sinner flocked to buyThe homilies of Yorick.

I fain would add one blossom toThe chaplet Fame has wreathed thee.My friends, the crew that Yorick drewAccept, as friends bequeathed thee.

At Shandy Hall I like to stopAnd see my ancient crony,Or in the lane meet Dr. SlopAstride a slender pony.

Mine uncle, on his bowling-green,Still storms a breach in Flanders;And faithful Trim, starch, tall, and lean,With Bridget still philanders.

And here again they visit usBy happy inspiration,The "fortunes of Pisistratus,"A tale of fascination.

But lay his magic volume by,And thank the Great Enchanter;—Our loins are girded, let us tryA sentimental canter....

A Temple quaint of latest growthExpands, where Art and ScienceAstounded by our lack of both,Have founded an alliance.

One picture there all passers scan,It rivets friend and stranger:Come, gaze on yonder guileless man,And tremble for his danger.

Mine uncle's bluff—his waistcoat's buff,—The heart beneath is tender.—Bewitching widow! Hold! Enough!Thou fairest of thy gender.

The limner's art!—the poet's pen!—Posterity the storyShall tell how these three gifted menHave wrought for Yorick's glory.

O name not easily forgot!Our love, dear Shade, we show thee,Regretting thy misdeeds, but notForgetting what we owe thee.

Minnie,in her hand a sixpence,Toddled off to buy some butter;(Minnie's pinafore was spotless)Back she brought it to the gutter,Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,Proud to be so largely trusted.One, two, three small steps she'd taken,Blissfully came little Minnie,When, poor darling! down she tumbled,Daubed her hands and face and pinny!Dropping too, the little slut, herPat of butter in the gutter.Never creep back so despairing—Dry those eyes, my little fairy:All of us start off in high glee,Many come back quitecontrairy.I've mourned sixpences in scores too,Damaged hopes and pinafores too.

Minnie,in her hand a sixpence,Toddled off to buy some butter;(Minnie's pinafore was spotless)Back she brought it to the gutter,Gleeful, radiant, as she thus did,Proud to be so largely trusted.

One, two, three small steps she'd taken,Blissfully came little Minnie,When, poor darling! down she tumbled,Daubed her hands and face and pinny!Dropping too, the little slut, herPat of butter in the gutter.

Never creep back so despairing—Dry those eyes, my little fairy:All of us start off in high glee,Many come back quitecontrairy.I've mourned sixpences in scores too,Damaged hopes and pinafores too.

(A BIRTHDAY ODE.)

The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine,Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine!'Tis herfête—so, although retrospection is pleasant,While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.A Gift!—In their praise she has raved, sung, and written,Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten;Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol:She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips,For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips.Then her mouth—when she's happy—indeed, it appearsTo laugh at the tips of her comicalEARS.Her Ears,—Ah, her Ears!—I remember the squallingsThat greeted my own ears, when Rambert andLawlings Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing—Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabæiThat I bought of the oldcontadinoat Veii.They cost me somepauls, but, as history shows,For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede,And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,For think of the woeful mishap that befelThe damsel who dropt her pair into a well.That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown,Or given her Ears to have let well alone;For when she got home her Instructress severeDismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a stingWould be rather too much of an excellent thing!I can't point a moral—or sing you the song—My Years are too short—and your Ears are too long.

The Muses, those painstaking Mentors of mine,Observe that to-day Little Pitcher is nine!'Tis herfête—so, although retrospection is pleasant,While we muse on her Past, we must think of her Present.

A Gift!—In their praise she has raved, sung, and written,Still, I don't seem to care for pup, pony, or kitten;Though their virtues I've heard Little Pitcher extol:She's too old for a watch, and too young for a doll!

Of a worthless old Block she's the dearest of Chips,For what nonsense she talks when she opens her lips.Then her mouth—when she's happy—indeed, it appearsTo laugh at the tips of her comicalEARS.

Her Ears,—Ah, her Ears!—I remember the squallingsThat greeted my own ears, when Rambert andLawlings Were boring (as I do) her Organs of Hearing—Come, I'll give her for each of those Organs an Earring.

Here they are! They are formed of the two scarabæiThat I bought of the oldcontadinoat Veii.They cost me somepauls, but, as history shows,For what runs through the Ears, we must pay through the Nose.

And now, Little Pitcher, give ear to my rede,And guard these two gems with a scrupulous heed,

For think of the woeful mishap that befelThe damsel who dropt her pair into a well.

That poor Little Pitcher would gladly have flown,Or given her Ears to have let well alone;For when she got home her Instructress severeDismissed her to bed with a Flea in her Ear.

What? Tell you that tale? Come, a tale with a stingWould be rather too much of an excellent thing!I can't point a moral—or sing you the song—My Years are too short—and your Ears are too long.

(AN EXPERIMENT.)

Whenhe whispers, "O Miss Bailey,Thou art brightest of the throng"—She makes murmur, softly-gaily—"Alfred, I have loved thee long."Then he drops upon his knees, aProof his heart is soft as wax:She's—I don't know who, but he's aCaptain bold from Halifax.Though so loving, such anotherArtless bride was never seen,Coachee thinks that she's his mother—Till they get to Gretna Green.There they stand, by him attended,Hear the sable smith rehearseThat which links them, when 'tis ended,Tight for better—or for worse.Now her heart rejoices—uglyTroubles need disturb her less—Now the Happy Pair are snuglySeated in the night express.So they go with fond emotion,So they journey through the night—London is their land of Goshen—See, its suburbs are in sight!Hark! the sound of life is swelling,Pacing up, and racing down,Soon they reach her simple dwelling—Burley Street, by Somers Town.What is there to so astound them?She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!"When five brats emerge, confound them!Shouting out, "Mama!—Papa!"While at this he wonders blindly,Nor their meaning can divine,Proud she turns them round, and kindly,"All of these are mine and thine!"* * * * *Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,Losing heart he loses pith—Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic—Swears that Moses was a myth.Sees no evidence in Paley—Takes to drinking ratifia:Shies the muffins at Miss BaileyWhile she's pouring out the tea.One day, knocking up his quarters,Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,Hanging in his knotted garters,Which she knitted ere they wed.

Whenhe whispers, "O Miss Bailey,Thou art brightest of the throng"—She makes murmur, softly-gaily—"Alfred, I have loved thee long."

Then he drops upon his knees, aProof his heart is soft as wax:She's—I don't know who, but he's aCaptain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such anotherArtless bride was never seen,Coachee thinks that she's his mother—Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand, by him attended,Hear the sable smith rehearseThat which links them, when 'tis ended,Tight for better—or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices—uglyTroubles need disturb her less—Now the Happy Pair are snuglySeated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion,So they journey through the night—London is their land of Goshen—See, its suburbs are in sight!

Hark! the sound of life is swelling,Pacing up, and racing down,Soon they reach her simple dwelling—Burley Street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them?She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!"When five brats emerge, confound them!Shouting out, "Mama!—Papa!"

While at this he wonders blindly,Nor their meaning can divine,Proud she turns them round, and kindly,"All of these are mine and thine!"

* * * * *

Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,Losing heart he loses pith—Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic—Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley—Takes to drinking ratifia:Shies the muffins at Miss BaileyWhile she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters,Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,Hanging in his knotted garters,Which she knitted ere they wed.

DearPoet, never rhyme at all!—But if you must, don't tell your neighbours;Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,Will dub you donkey for your labours.This epithet may seem unjustTo you—or any verse-begetter:Oh, must we own—I fear we must!—That nine in ten deserve no better.Then let them bray with leathern lungs,And match you with the beast that grazes,—Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues,Or damn you with the faintest praises.Be patient—you will get your dueOf honours, or humiliations:So look for sympathy—but doNot look to find it from relations.When strangers first approved my booksMy kindred marvelled what the praise meant,They now wear more respectful looks,But can't get over their amazement.Indeed, they've power to wound, beyondThat wielded by the fiercest hater,For all the time they are so fond—Which makes the aggravation greater.Most warblers now but half expressThe threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:If they attempted nought—or less!They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter.Fly low, my friend, then mount, and winThe niche, for which the town's contesting;And never mind your kith and kin—But never give them cause for jesting.A bard on entering the listsShould form his plan, and, having conn'd it,Should know wherein his strength consists,And never, never go beyond it.Great Dryden all pretence discards,Does Cowper ever strain his tether?And Praed—(Watteau of English Bards)—How well he keeps his team together!Hold Pegasus in hand—controlA vein for ornament ensnaring,Simplicity is still the soulOf all that Time deems worth the sparing.Long lays are not a lively sport,Reduce your own to half a quarter,Unless your Public thinks them short,Posterity will cut them shorter.I look on Bards who whine for praise,With feelings of profoundest pity:They hunger for the Poets' baysAnd swear one's spiteful when one's witty.The critic's lot is passing hard—Between ourselves, I think reviewers,When called to truss a crowing bard,Should not be sparing of the skewers.We all—the foolish and the wise—Regard our verse with fascination,Through asinine paternal eyes,And hues of Fancy's own creation;Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queerAnd sadly self-deluded rhymer,Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)Has all the gust ofalt hochheimer.Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx,So tricksy, it were wrong to let herRest satisfied with what she thinksIs perfect: try and teach her better.And if you only use, perchance,One half the pains to learn that we, Sir,Still use to hide our ignorance—How very clever you will be, Sir!

Then let them bray with leathern lungs,And match you with the beast that grazes,—Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues,Or damn you with the faintest praises.Be patient—you will get your dueOf honours, or humiliations:So look for sympathy—but doNot look to find it from relations.

When strangers first approved my booksMy kindred marvelled what the praise meant,They now wear more respectful looks,But can't get over their amazement.Indeed, they've power to wound, beyondThat wielded by the fiercest hater,For all the time they are so fond—Which makes the aggravation greater.

Most warblers now but half expressThe threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:If they attempted nought—or less!They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter.Fly low, my friend, then mount, and winThe niche, for which the town's contesting;And never mind your kith and kin—But never give them cause for jesting.

A bard on entering the listsShould form his plan, and, having conn'd it,Should know wherein his strength consists,And never, never go beyond it.Great Dryden all pretence discards,Does Cowper ever strain his tether?And Praed—(Watteau of English Bards)—How well he keeps his team together!

Hold Pegasus in hand—controlA vein for ornament ensnaring,Simplicity is still the soulOf all that Time deems worth the sparing.Long lays are not a lively sport,Reduce your own to half a quarter,Unless your Public thinks them short,Posterity will cut them shorter.

I look on Bards who whine for praise,With feelings of profoundest pity:They hunger for the Poets' baysAnd swear one's spiteful when one's witty.The critic's lot is passing hard—Between ourselves, I think reviewers,When called to truss a crowing bard,Should not be sparing of the skewers.

We all—the foolish and the wise—Regard our verse with fascination,Through asinine paternal eyes,And hues of Fancy's own creation;Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queerAnd sadly self-deluded rhymer,Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)Has all the gust ofalt hochheimer.

Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx,So tricksy, it were wrong to let herRest satisfied with what she thinksIs perfect: try and teach her better.And if you only use, perchance,One half the pains to learn that we, Sir,Still use to hide our ignorance—How very clever you will be, Sir!

"In our last month's Magazine you may remember there were some verses about a portion of a skeleton. Did you remark how the poet and present proprietor of the human skull at once settled the sex of it, and determined off-hand that it must have belonged to a woman? Such skulls are locked up in many gentlemen's hearts and memories. Bluebeard, you know, had a whole museum of them—as that imprudent little last wife of his found out to her cost. And, on the other hand, a lady, we suppose, would select hers of the sort which had carried beards when in the flesh."—The Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World. Cornhill Magazine, January, 1861.

"He never sends a letter to her, but he begins a new one on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind little hand as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him, and longing for him far away in Dublin yonder."—English Humourists of the Eighteenth Century.

"M. Deschanel quotes the following charming little poem, by Corneille, addressed to a young lady who had not been quite civil to him. He says with truth—'Le sujet est léger, le rhythme court, mais on y retrouve la fierté de l'homme, et aussi l'ampleur du tragique.' The verses are probably new to our readers. They are well worth reading:—

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